


The Two Sights

by dirigibleplumbing



Category: Hannibal (TV), The X-Files
Genre: (Spoiler: It's not ley lines!), (maybe), (or are they?), Another Unsolved X-File! Poor Mulder, Case Fic, Crossover, F/M, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Happy Ending, M/M, POV Dana Scully, POV Outsider, Psychic Abilities, Tarot, Visions, Will Graham Has Encephalitis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25427362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirigibleplumbing/pseuds/dirigibleplumbing
Summary: "Mulder, why am I reading a file about a solved case of serial murder in Minnesota?""Scully, have you heard of ley lines?"There are no ley lines, but Mulder soon finds another unexplained phenomenon to investigate.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 18
Kudos: 80





	The Two Sights

**Author's Note:**

> “The Two Sights” is a literal translation of the Gaelic term _an dà shealladh_. It is possibly the origin of the English term “second sight,” which refers to extrasensory perception. 
> 
> I got into Hannibal fandom about a year ago and since then have been working on two multi-chapter post-fall stories. I’d been hoping to publish one of those as my first Hannibal fic, but it’s been slow going with them lately and this one was burning a hole in my pocket. 
> 
> I am generally wary of stories and interpretations of Hannibal canon that approach Will’s profiling and reconstruction skills as supernatural, but yeah, in this piece, he is literally having accurate visions of the past. (Or _is_ he? This is an X-Files crossover, after all. The truth is out there!) 
> 
> Despite the Scully POV, this is more of a Hannibal fic than it is an X-Files fic.

"Mulder,” Dana says on a sigh, “why am I reading a file about a solved case of serial murder in Minnesota?" 

Mulder leans around his computer monitor, grinning like a three-week-old chocolate labrador. "Scully, have you heard of ley lines?"

Unfortunately, Scully has. Moreover, she has no doubt she’s about to learn far more about them than she’s ever wanted to know. 

* * *

“No, thank you,” Agent Graham says, not looking up. 

Mulder pauses just inside the door. “For what?” he asks, sounding equal parts intrigued and dumbfounded. 

Eyes still locked on the paperclipped printouts and glossy photos on his desk, Graham waves a dismissive hand and says, “Whatever it is you want to ask me about.” 

“Actually, Agent Crawford sent us,” Dana puts in. 

Graham knuckles his eyes, pushing his glasses up his forehead. A slightly unwound metal screw in one corner of the frames catches in his hair. He tugs them back down his nose, dragging out the tuft of trapped hair with them. “Great. Okay. Thanks, Jack. What department are you two from?” 

“Agent Mulder, nice to meet you,” Mulder said, offering a hand and a disarming smile. 

Graham—apparently impervious to charm—glances at the hand, flicks his eyes briefly to Mulder’s face, then frowns back down at his desktop, his own hands gripping a ballpoint pen rather than reach for Mulder’s. “Right, I’ve heard of you. Violent crimes, right? Lamana’s partner?” 

Mulder drops his hand, looking at Dana as if for guidance before soldiering gamely on. “Not recently. I work with Scully now.” 

“Guess I know you, too. Is that Agent Scully, or Doctor Scully?” 

“Agent is fine, thank you,” she replies. 

“I think our reputations precede us,” Mulder says. 

Graham sets down the pen. “I’ve read your paper on medical jurisprudence” —a fleeting snag of a glance in Dana’s direction— “and your monograph” —this addressed to the vicinity of Mulder’s knees— “on serial killers and the occult. It helped to catch Monty Props, right?” 

Mulder smiles, amused. “Is that all you’ve heard?” 

Graham shrugs, managing to hunch his shoulders further as he does it. “I don’t suppose you’re asking whether I know about Agent Scully’s profile that caught Cecil L’Ively, or Agent Mulder’s profile of the Paper Heart Killer. In which case: yeah, that’s all I’ve heard. I’m not exactly one for water cooler gossip.” 

“I believe Agent Mulder is referring to the fact that our current assignment is to the X-Files.” 

“The what?” 

“Our work focuses on the unexplained—” Mulder begins. 

“Isn’t every case unexplained? Until it’s solved, of course, and even then…” Graham gets to his feet and stuffs his files into a shoulder bag. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment in Baltimore. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow about whatever it is you want solved.” On his way out the door, he looks over his shoulder, almost grudgingly, and calls, “I can’t promise I’ll be able to explain anything, though.” 

* * *

Two days later, after long shifts of scrutinizing—and in some cases, visiting—the confirmed locations of bodies and suspected locations of murders, even Mulder has to admit that the work of the Minnesota Shrike, Chesapeake Ripper, Copycat Killer, and Maestro don’t “bear any resemblance to any proposed arrangement or accordance of occult borders demarcating earth energies and unexplained occurrences.” 

Of course, Mulder has already found another phenomenon on which to ascribe supernatural properties. 

“Mulder, c’mon, you’ve already admitted it: there’s no X-File here.” 

“Ah, I admitted that the ley line connection was a bust. I did not, however, agree that there’s no X-File here.” 

Dana takes off her glasses and sets them on top of the files in her lap, there being no clear space on Mulder’s rat’s nest of a desk. “Mulder…” 

“Scully. The agent we’ve been working with?” 

“Mr. Graham.” 

“Yeah, him. What do you think of him?” Mulder looks at her with unrestrained delight and curiosity. It is, unfortunately for Dana, rather charming. 

“He’s quite intelligent, clearly,” she replies. “Arrogant. Impatient with those who can’t keep up with him intellectually. Adept at understanding others’ feelings, but not at responding to them. Possibly on the autism spectrum. Although,” she adds, “his aversion to eye contact and touch could be attributed to some form of social anxiety. He seems quite comfortable with the other consultant, that psychiatrist.” 

“He was amazing. He knew everything about us just from looking at us!” 

Dana has to admit that in this Mulder is not, precisely, wrong. 

In the last forty-eight hours, Graham’s observations and comments have included: an offhand mention of Mulder’s childhood in Martha’s Vineyard; “Agent Scully knows what having a parent in the armed forces is like. Your dad was in the Navy, right?”; a joke about Mulder’s waterbed; and a casual reference to the murder of Dana’s Sunday school teacher. There’s also the time he stood up and walked away in the middle of a meeting, only to return with a package of unshelled sunflower seeds from the vending machine, toss them in front of Mulder, and then retake his seat and continue as if nothing had happened. 

And that’s not to mention his obscure mutters about absent sisters, which seemed to be addressed to everyone else in the room. 

There are several compelling explanations as to how Graham might have guessed where Mulder grew up, the nature of her father’s profession, about the sunflower seeds, even about Mulder’s stupid waterbed—god, even the influence of Samantha’s disappearance on Mulder’s life, even some of what happened to Melissa. Dana knows how far a good cold-read can take you. There are fewer justifications for Graham knowing about a murder from Dana’s youth. 

Dana is forced to point out, however, “He admitted to having heard of us. He could have recognized us, read our files even, and just pretended he didn’t. Crawford could have told him about us, too.” 

“Sure, but why would he lie about something like that, Scully?” 

“I’m not a psychologist, remember?” Dana says with a faint smile. 

“How do you explain how he caught the Shrike, then?” 

“He himself called it dumb luck. No” —she rolls her eyes— “explanation.” 

Being Mulder, he barrels on, discounting whatever information—however logical—stands in his way. “And what he does at crime scenes. The way he can recreate what happened.” 

Ah, there it is. Dana should have guessed sooner. “So you’re saying he has extrasensory perception.” 

“Dr. Lecter called what Graham has ‘pure empathy.’” 

“He also called it an empathy disorder,” Dana reminds him. 

“He displays classic retrocognition, probably the beginnings of precognition, too.” 

“I’ll concede the man is clearly not neurotypical, but I see no evidence, or even suggestion, of the supernatural.” Dana gives Mulder an imploring look—most likely futile, but she has to try. “You know better than anyone else how evidence just comes together sometimes, how you can reach conclusions from details you’re not even consciously aware you’ve seen. It stands to reason that someone who is particularly visually perceptive, with an excellent memory, a strong understanding of the human and in particular psychopathic mind, and a vivid imagination could more fully and yes, sometimes accurately, envision the actions and motives of a killer.” 

“‘Sometimes?’” Mulder repeats. “Scully, you know as well as I do that typical profiling is only a match about fifty percent of the time. Do you know what Graham’s success rate is? A hundred.” 

Dana huffs. “Not counting the Ripper or the Copycat Killer.” 

“It’s only a matter of time,” Mulder replies with a shrug. 

“I went over all of those case files right alongside you. Graham has been losing time and possibly hallucinating.” The descriptions of those incidents in the Sutcliffe and Madchen files were certainly memorable. No one had discussed this; Scully is not, in fact, sure that Graham is aware she and Mulder are privy to these details. 

“Then maybe that’s how his glimpses into the past and future manifest.” Mulder’s smile grows brighter and more mischievous. “C’mon, if he could learn to focus his powers, he could catch the Ripper and the Copycat killer sooner than you think.” 

“Mulder,” Dana says, unable to keep the scolding tone out of her voice. “Neither killer left a shred of meaningful evidence.” 

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, Agent Crawford’s sure Graham’s going to track those guys down any day now!” 

“Agent Crawford is dangerously obsessed with the Chesapeake Ripper and only recently convinced that there even _is_ a Copycat Killer. Both cases which we have not been granted full access to, and thus can draw no conclusions on.” 

“C’mon, Scully, let’s just do a few tests. See what happens.” 

Dana, of course, soon concedes. 

* * *

It takes an hour to convince Crawford to give permission for this use of Mr. Graham’s time on the FBI’s dime, and nearly another to persuade Mr. Graham himself. Or, it might be more accurate to say that Graham refuses and hangs up, Dr. Lecter calls fifteen minutes later assuring them he will coax his patient into agreeing, and then half an hour later the two of them call back to decide where and when the testing should take place. 

Dana and Mulder drive to Baltimore after lunch. At Lecter’s suggestion, they’re meeting at his office, a space where Graham is already comfortable. Mulder spends the ride practically vibrating with eagerness, putting Scully in mind of an over-excited chihuahua. A cute one though, she admits to herself. Not one of the bug-eyed ones with faces like a Roswell Gray. 

Graham is already pacing when they arrive. “Can we get this over with?” he snaps. 

“Have a seat, please, Agent Scully, Agent Mulder,” Lecter offers. “May I get you anything to drink?” 

Graham scoffs and resumes his pacing. 

Finally—after several minutes of small talk, the bulk of which, unfortunately, pertains to Dana’s resemblance to her cousin Bedelia, with whom Lecter is acquainted—they’re all seated facing one another. Graham has one leg slung over his knee, foot bouncing up and down on the rug. 

“Before we start with the Zener cards, do you mind telling me if you get any impressions from this?” Mulder asks, pulling out a plastic evidence bag. Probably the exact same one he handed to Luther Lee Boggs, the one with a scrap of fabric cut out from a New York Knicks t-shirt. 

It’s a good reminder that, when evidence precludes the possibility, even Mulder can accept that certain mysteries are not the result of supernatural, alien, or occult forces.

Graham frowns and wrinkles his nose at the scrap of cloth scrunched inside the clear plastic. “What, did you cut that off your New York Knicks t-shirt?” 

Mulder grins and winks at Dana before putting it back in his suitcase and taking out a rubber-banded deck of cards. He riffle shuffles them on his lap, then holds the deck between two stacked hands and crosses and bounces the halves together by the short ends so they fall together like the threads of a zipper. “There are five different symbols on the cards, ten of each one. You’re going to tell me what symbol is on the top card, then I’ll lift it and reveal it to everyone. Scully will be recording the results.” He explains the origin of the test through several more trick shuffles, then gives the word to begin. 

“Squiggly lines,” Graham says on a heavy sigh. Mulder lifts the card to show the triad of wavy lines. “Plus sign.” Right again. Graham flutters his lips like a horse and tips his head into his hand, elbow resting on the arm of the upholstered chair. “Circle. Star. Star. Square.” Correct, correct, correct, and correct. “Squiggles. Plus sign, then squiggles again. This is way too easy.” 

Lecter tilts his head. “How are you determining which symbol will appear, Will?” 

Graham shrugs and stifles a yawn. “I dunno, he’s got tells. It’s obvious.” 

No one—even Dana—quite manages to point out that Mulder doesn’t look at the cards until after Graham has called out what will be on them. 

“Let’s try to add some more randomness,” Mulder suggests, barely managing to conceal his delight. “Tell me the symbols that are on the top card, bottom card, and a card I’m going to pull out from the middle. Okay?” 

“Fine.” 

After a few minutes of nothing but correct guesses—though even Scully is growing weary of calling them such, when Graham clearly has some method of determining what will be on the cards—Graham grows frustrated once more. “These are too simple. Look, this isn’t telling us anything. Can we at least try something more interesting?” 

“If I may offer a suggestion,” Lecter begins. At Mulder’s nod, Graham’s shrug, and Dana’s expectant look, he continues, “I have a more complex deck we might try.” He unfolds from the chair like an ibis, straightens out his suit, strides to his desk, and returns with a smallish golden box, about twice as tall as Mulder’s Zener decks. “You are all familiar with the tarot, I take it?” 

“Yes, of course,” Mulder replies. 

“Only through popular culture,” Dana says. 

Graham shrugs. “I’ve heard of it, I guess.” 

Lecter smiles—if such a small, crooked thing can be referred to as such. “Perfect. Will, I’d like you to predict the top card of the deck just as before. If you can’t identify it by name, describe it. And please indicate whether it will be upright or reversed.” 

Graham sighs and makes a sour face. 

“This deck is a reproduction of one dating back to 15th-century Milan,” Lecter says, letting the deck fall out of its box in a smooth slide. He spreads the cards into a fan, revealing pale, downcast faces, vibrant grass greens, vivid blue robes, gold-leaf backgrounds, and black borders. “Each of these seventy-six cards is different. I can assure you that the imagery, at least, is far more complex than the Zener cards.” 

“Fine,” Graham says, letting his head fall back and rest on the top of his armchair as Lecter begins to shuffle. The backs are a warm ochre patterned in heraldic, horse-headed creatures with a crest of three curled white feathers, the tails of a fish, and the wings of a dragon. After a few passes, Lecter holds the deck out to Dana, who cuts it without being asked. Half of Lecter’s mouth ticks up into another miniscule, smug smile. He combines the two stacks and then waves a hand, offering for Graham to begin. 

“Swords, two pairs crossed over a fifth—the Five of Spades. Upright.” 

Correct. 

“Four of Coins, reversed.” 

Correct again. 

“Jack of Batons, upright.” 

Still correct. 

Graham continues to be correct through the Queen of Cups, Seven of Coins, Four of Batons, King of Swords, the Empress, Ten of Batons, Temperance, Ten of Swords, Ace of Swords, Five of Batons, and Strength. 

Lecter suggests reshuffling revealed cards into the deck, to rule out any claim of card-counting. Mulder eagerly agrees. 

Ace of Cups, Reversed Hermit, Reversed Jack of Batons, Seven of Swords, Four of Coins, Four of Batons. All correct. 

Occasionally, Lecter pauses and asks Graham to describe a card. For Judgment, Graham says, “There's three people, two with curly blonde hair, the other with a white beard, in some kind of terra cotta tub or something. There are trees behind them, like a garden or a forest. And they're—looking, gazing up, to see two blond angels with trumpets and white robes. Between them there’s a floating man with a sword and a long beard and mustache. It’s a pretty symmetrical arrangement. How's that?"

“How did you know that was Judgment, Will?” 

Graham frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“You were unfamiliar with tarot and so, I would assume, the cards that comprise it. You didn’t know there was a card called Judgment. Why do you call this one Judgment?” 

“What else would you call it?” Graham asks, frowning. “Why, what’s it really called? Is it really a Two of Trumpets or something?” 

“It’s Judgment,” Lecter says, smiling mischievously. 

Graham nods with an expression that would not look out of place on a man who has just won a hand at blackjack. “The Star,” he says. “Reversed.” 

Lecter delicately lifts the top card, then turns it to show everyone else that Graham is correct. 

The test resumes. The gold-leafed backgrounds of the cards catch the light, tossing shadows and beams across the walls and ceiling. Graham continues to predict the cards correctly. Mulder leans over, waves a hand over Dana’s chart to indicate the column marked _correct_ and smiles smugly before turning back to watch the proceedings.

Graham begins to frown before calling the Hermit—correct—and through the Eight of Batons, Ace of Cups, Jack of Coins, and Nine of Batons—correct, correct, correct, and correct—begins to grow pale. He wipes a sheen of sweat off his forehead with the back of a trembling hand. 

“Are you alright, Mr. Graham?” Dana asks. 

He ignores her. “The Wheel of Fortune, reversed.” 

Correct. 

“The—the Fool. Upright.” 

Correct. 

Graham is shivering now, shaking his head back and forth, swallowing compulsively. He screws his eyes shut and says, “The Devil.” 

“Will,” Lecter says, voice as gentle as a hand plucking a thorn from a lion’s paw, “that is not a card in this deck.” 

“The Devil,” Graham repeats, shoving a hand over his eyes, pushing his glasses half off of his face. “The Devil, upright.” 

“Will,” Lecter says again. He reaches out a hand. 

Graham’s eyes flash open, bloodshot and wet. The instant they land on Lecter’s outstretched hand he yells and shoots to his feet, knocking over his heavy armchair as he steps back. 

“Will!” It’s the loudest volume Dana has heard Lecter’s voice, and the most emotional. 

They’re all on their feet now, Mulder hovering in front of his seat so Dana and Lecter have a chance to assess the situation medically. Their patient stands frozen with his heels hitting the overturned chair, holding onto himself and tensed as if to stop himself from shaking. His eyes are closed but moving visibly under his eyelids, like he’s in the middle of a REM sleep cycle. He’s speaking, but too softly for Dana to hear. 

Hairs prick on the back of her neck. She steps up to him, but before she can so much as reach out a hand to take his pulse he jerks his arm away. He opens his eyes and sways on his feet. His expression is stark and open, like a wounded animal. 

Lecter steps in front of Dana, reaching eye level with Graham, and with an uncharacteristically soft voice says, “Will. What did you see?” 

Graham takes a deep breath and visibly attempts to still himself. He replies, voice cracked and quiet, “I saw.” His attempt at a smile lasts for a grimacing half-second. “I know. I know that it’s” —he swallows back a shiver— “it’s—and. All those people. Why—why did—I believed it, you know. I wanted—oh god.” He takes a step back, shoving the chair backward against the pile of the carpet. “I should have—fuck. You—you...” 

Dana’s unsure whether approaching him again might agitate him further, or even lead to him inadvertently harming himself. 

She exchanges a glance with Mulder and stays put. 

Lecter’s pose is relaxed and still, like a cat watching sparrow through an open window. The street noise and sounds of cars are muted. They are, all of them, waiting for—well, for an explanation to an unexplained phenomenon. 

“Disappointment requires expectation, right,” Graham whispers. 

“Oh, Will,” Lecter says, practically crooning. Dana can’t see his face from this angle; she is gripped nonetheless with a wild, inexplicable notion, dripping like cold water down her neck, that he is smiling. 

A poised silence follows. Dana tries to catch Mulder’s eyes, but his are transfixed on Graham and Lecter. 

“I apologize,” Graham says after a moment, not looking at anyone. He’s clearly trying to sound unaffected, but his voice is unsteady, too quiet. “I’m not sure what came over me. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to cut this short.” With that, he heads to the door, shoulders tense, eyes on the floor. 

“Mr. Graham—” Dana begins. 

Graham cuts her off. “I have to see my dogs.” He’s stopped mid-stride to speak, his upper body tilted over the chair Lecter has vacated, one hand skimming the tarot cards tossed aside on his seat. 

“You’ve barely been away from them for two hours,” Lecter points out. 

“I—I have to call my dog-sitter. I’m going to be gone tomorrow,” Graham says without turning around. 

“You—” Mulder starts. 

Graham waves a hand in dismissal. “No, I’m good to drive. See you later.” 

He is out the door before anyone can point out that the next day is a federal holiday, and, barring an emergency, he will not be working. 

* * *

As soon as Scully takes her seat in the car, Mulder reaches for her hand and says, “Graham palmed a card as he left.” When Dana doesn’t speak, he turns back to the windshield. “I saw him.” 

Dana has no reply. 

The drive back to Dana’s place is subdued. Conversation picks up again over paper plates of pizza and garlic bread. By unspoken agreement, they do not discuss the case. 

That is, they wait until the pizza box is empty of anything but crumbs and melted cheese and Mulder is standing with one hip leaning against the counter, scooping caramel ice cream into bowls. “I’m concerned about Mr. Graham, don’t get me wrong,” he begins. 

“He was certainly rattled by whatever he experienced,” Dana agrees, already resigned to having this conversation. 

“I think that’s something of an understatement. But what he saw—he really could be having visions. Yesterday he was picking feelings off people like he could smell them in the air; today he’s predicting things he can’t possibly know, responding to things no one has said out loud. That’s telepathy, clairvoyance, and either remote viewing or precognition. Or some combination of both. Who knows what skills he could develop if he really works at it!” 

Dana folds up their plates and shoves them into the compost bin. She accepts a bowl of ice cream, takes a bite, and immediately feels more inclined to continue to humor Mulder. “And what skills might those be, Agent Mulder?” 

“Well you may ask, Scully! I’m thinking—dare I say it—psychokinesis.” 

“Oh, you clearly dare,” she teases, earning her a broad, dopey smile. 

“If he continues at this rate, he could be moving, even transforming, objects in a matter of days. _Creating_ them, manifesting them, within a week.” 

“That would be quite impressive,” Dana agrees. 

“Just you wait, Scully. Will Graham is going to prove the existence of extrasensory perception once and for all.” 

* * *

Dana has just changed into her pajamas and poured herself a glass of cabernet when the doorbell rings. She pulls on the fuzzy bathrobe with the revolver in one pocket and goes to answer it. 

Will Graham is standing there, with dark shadows cast under his eye sockets from the porch light overhead. “I know who the Chesapeake Ripper is,” he says before the door is all the way open. 

“Mr. Graham. Please, come inside. Can I get you something to drink?” 

Graham shakes his head. “Nah, I’m not gonna stay long. Agent Mulder is about to finish his shower, I’ll tell you both once he’s back downstairs and then be on my way.” 

“What makes you say—” Dana begins, but she’s cut off by the unmistakable sound of a squeaky faucet being turned and a brief rumbling of pipes, followed by the cessation of running water. “Right,” she mutters. She crosses her arms and leans against the doorway. 

As she understands it, Graham lives all the way out in Wolf Trap, Virginia. That’s some distance from here. There’s barely been time for him to get there from Baltimore and then back out to DC, but he’s wearing fresh clothes, dark slacks and a coral-colored button-down, and Dana thinks he’s showered. His hair has more of a “just washed and then left to dry in the car on the way over” look than its usual “unwashed and slept on for several fitful nights in a row” look. 

The silence drags on long enough that she’s nearly desperate enough to inquire into the health of his dogs, and she breathes a sigh of relief when Mulder finally comes downstairs and joins her in the doorway. His hair is wet, and he’s wearing nothing but boxers, socks, a tee—all various shades of gray—and a crimson robe with a pistol in one pocket. Dana takes his hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Mr. Graham,” he says. 

“Fox, Mr. Graham was just telling me that he’s ascertained the identity of the Chesapeake Ripper,” Dana reports. 

“And the Copycat Killer.” 

“Well, as Agent Scully has recently reminded me, we’re not assigned to either of those investigations,” Mulder says, the little shit. “Why are you telling us and not off making arrests?” 

Graham attempts to grin. “Well, the better question might be how I know who he is.” He leans in conspiratorially and stage whispers, “I saw it in a vision.” 

Mulder casts Dana an _I told you so_ look that he is going to pay for later. “So you had a vision earlier this evening.” 

“Something like that. I’m not sure what to call it.” He scoffs. “Something Jack won’t believe, that’s for sure, and certainly nothing a competent judge would grant a warrant for.” 

“Just this morning you were quite skeptical of the concept of ESP,” Dana points out. 

Graham meets her eyes for a split-second. His own are glittering with mirth. “Well, yeah. It’s _crazy_ ,” he agrees. 

Dana unsuccessfully hides a giggle, earning her an elbowing from Mulder. 

“But,” Graham continues, sobering, “I mean, that was getting really out there, right? It’s been a while since I took Stats 101, but I’m pretty sure I passed statistically significant improbability a couple minutes into that Zener deck.” 

“I think we can all agree on that,” Dana says. 

“So I thought, what if it’s true? What if I could just—let go, try to find the answer. See where my mind takes me.” 

Dana watches his wry expression fall into a grimace. “And where did it take you, Mr. Graham?” 

“I saw—” he begins. His eyes lose focus for a moment before he blinks himself out of it, attempts an ironic smile, and says, “I saw.” 

“And how do you plan to proceed?” Mulder asks. 

“I don’t have any actual proof. Not yet, anyway.” 

“Yet?” Dana asks sharply. 

“Tomorrow, I’ll either have proof, or I’ll be dead.” 

“Mr. Graham, I can’t—” Dana starts. 

“You’re not going to stop me. Look, I can’t tell you who he is. If I’m right, and he asks if I’ve told anyone, he’ll be able to tell if I’m lying. So, I’m here to give you a heads up, and tomorrow or maybe the day after, you’ll get a letter from me with the name and everything I know about what he’s doing. Tomorrow I’ll either have arrested him, or he’ll have killed me. That and the name should be enough for a warrant, if nothing else.” With that, Graham steps off the porch and toward wherever he’s parked. “Make sure Alana does something with my dogs,” he calls over his shoulder as his form is swallowed into the night. 

Mulder opens his mouth to speak.

“Yes, we’re following him,” Dana says. If Graham’s right, he’s about to confront a murderer. He doesn’t need extrasensory powers to have a hunch that proves correct, or dangerous. And, if he _doesn’t_ have extrasensory powers, then he’s gripped by a hallucination or dream he thinks is real and really shouldn’t be driving. 

They grab shoes and get in the car without putting them on. Dana pulls up Agent Crawford’s number on her phone. 

Her first call is cut short on the second ring. Her second call is ended before the first chime has completed. On her third try, Crawford picks up after several rings. “Just a minute,” he says, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

“Wait—damnit.” Dana catches Mulder’s expression and explains, “He put me on hold.” 

The minute Crawford demanded stretches into two, then five, then ten. Graham drives in circles a few blocks across, clearly aware he’s being followed and offering no hint of his ultimate destination. If backup doesn’t arrive in time, this will come down to who has more gas in the tank. If it’s Graham, his trail could be lost entirely. 

“What,” Crawford says. 

“Will Graham just knocked on my door, said he knows who the Chesapeake Ripper is, and walked away.” 

Crawford curses. Then comes the sound of muffled voices and shifting. “Well, who is it?” 

“He didn’t say.” 

“Did you even _try_ to stop him?” 

“We’re following him now—” 

“No,” Mulder says, slowing the car to a stop on the shoulder. The back of his head falls against the headrest. “I’ve lost him.” 

“How did you _lose him_? I thought he just left?” Clearly, Crawford can hear what Mulder’s saying. Dana puts the call on speakerphone and holds it between the seats 

“He must’ve shut off his lights after that last turn,” Mulder says, not hiding his frustration. “I’ve been following the wrong car for half a mile. He could be anywhere.” He starts the car again and heads back toward Dana’s place. 

“Right. What a shitshow. I’ll wake up the team, call Hannibal, see if we can figure out where he’s heading. The moment you hear from him—” 

“We’ll contact you,” Dana assures him. 

Crawford ends the call. The streets are dark; streetlamps are sparse and dim around here. She doesn’t bother putting on her shoes. 

When they’re home and parked in the driveway, Mulder turns to her. “Hey,” he says, a smile in his voice. “So that sucked.” 

She looks up at him and he brushes a hand over her face. “Anything could be waiting for him,” she says, but Mulder gets _that_ expression on his face, so she cuts him off before he can speak. “Extrasensory powers aside, Graham’s insights have frequently proven correct.” 

“Right,” he agrees. He’s smiling again. “I think I owe you a foot massage.” 

“You know, I think you do.” 

* * *

Dana’s eyes droop. Her wine glass is empty and Mulder has worked his way up to her calves. She dozes into a pile of pillows. 

“Dana?” 

“Mmm?” 

“I looked up the deck Lecter was using. It’s pretty similar to a modern deck, except it doesn’t have the Devil or the Tower. Apparently a lot of the old ones are missing cards, usually some of the major arcana.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Do you know what the reversed Devil card represents in modern tarot, Scully?” Mulder asks, in the same voice he’d use to run one of his slideshows about the latest Bigfoot sighting or human cloning experiment that’s caught his attention. 

“What does the reversed Devil card represent in modern tarot, Mulder?” she murmurs.

“One interpretation is that it’s about new perspectives and awareness. Especially of circumstances and behavior that’s been harmful to you. It’s about the fuller understanding of what’s befallen you, and the motivation to overcome it.”

“And another interpretation?” 

“Nothing too different. It’s about revelations, too, but of the self. Recognizing social constraints that are holding you back. Exploring dark paths and thoughts.” Mulder’s voice is soothing. Dana catches, through hazy half-raised eyes, the sight of him smiling fondly down at her. “What do you suppose it means for Mr. Graham?” 

Dana lets her eyes fall shut. “Definitely an epiphany,” she says, or tries to, and then she’s asleep. 

* * *

The sky above Dr. Frederick Chilton’s home is a cold, flat gray, bleached pale by the morning sun. Dana stands with Mulder just inside the police tape, red and blue lights spinning and a building crowd clamouring behind them. 

She takes a sip from her paper coffee cup. Her breath is a puff of white in the air that vanishes as quickly as it arrived, no evidence of it remaining in sight. 

“Well Scully,” Mulder says, “I guess Mr. Graham got proof.” 

“There’s certainly plenty of it,” Dana agrees, watching as another crime scene tech bundles out of the house with an armful of bagged and tagged evidence. 

* * *

The amount of evidence against Dr. Chilton, former director of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, is, in fact, staggering. 

Dana and Mulder join Graham and Lecter for coffee following the afternoon FBI briefing on the case. When the Graham and Lecter arrive, they’re holding hands. Graham looks more calm, more content—pleased, even—than Dana has ever seen him. Their acquaintance has been short, but the difference in him, in his poise and in his eyes, is striking. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on when he stood on her doorstep the night before, except they somehow look less messy than before. 

“Agent Crawford wasn’t very specific about the evidence that led to the arrest,” Mulder observes once greetings are dispensed with and they’re all sitting around a quiet table with their coffee. 

“I remembered something from the Georgia Madchen case,” Graham says, then looks away, chagrined. “From when I blacked out. I told Jack about it, so this morning he sent a couple of agents by to ask Dr. Chilton about it. And, well...” 

“And Frederick provided evidence aplenty by killing them and trying to flee,” Lecter says. 

“The blood spatter in there is something else.” Graham shifts closer to Lecter, so close their legs must be brushing under the table. 

“Chilton’s the one who started all that fanfare about one of his patients being the Ripper?” Dana asks. 

Graham nods. “Yes. Abel Gideon.” 

“It would seem dear Frederick intended to set Dr. Gideon up as a patsy for his own crimes,” Lecter observes. He raises an eyebrow and catches Graham’s eyes, which glitter in return, as if they’re sharing a private joke. 

“But how did you know to suspect Dr. Chilton in the first place?” Mulder asks. “What was in your vision?” 

“Ah. That,” Lecter says with a tight nod, wearing an expression that no doubt matches the look he’d have while being forced to admit that he has inadvertently served chicken broth to a vegetarian. 

“It’s been a very busy day,” Graham says, sounding sheepish. “I got a call from my neurologist this morning. I had an MRI recently and it turns out I have anti-NMDA encephalitis.” 

“Oh my god,” Dana says. 

“Yeah, I was lucky Dr. Lecter thought to suggest another brain scan.” 

Very lucky, Dana thinks. Jesus, and Mulder had been so excited about Graham’s supposed telepathic and precognitive abilities. “So your ‘vision’ was a hallucination?” 

Graham shrugs. “What else could it have been?” 

“I can’t help but notice that Dr. Chilton doesn’t quite fit your profile of the Ripper, Mr. Graham,” Mulder puts in. 

Graham shrugs. “Yeah. It happens. We all make mistakes sometimes.” 

The look Lecter gives him can only be described as soppy. Dana has only ever seen such an expression on Mulder’s face, once or twice, when he’s looking at her. It doesn’t suit Lecter nearly so well, she thinks.

Graham smiles briefly. “After all, I’m not psychic.” 

* * *

Dana stands at the sink, washing vegetables for a stir fry, while Mulder sorts through her mail. It’s been a long day: meeting with Skinner; writing their reports; disagreeing on how to write their reports; writing contradictory reports; and of course Mulder’s disappointment had its own timeslot. He ended up insisting that Graham’s encephalitis had somehow activated his latent psychic abilities, which then faded as soon as he’d started treatment. 

“Hey, look,” he says now, coming up to her with a flat, document-sized package covered in branding for a ground courier service. “It’s the stuff Graham said he was sending here. Postmarked and timestamped an hour before he came to talk to us.” 

“Well?” Dana asks, reaching for a hand towel. 

Mulder tugs the perforated seam open and tilts the envelope into his hand. All that falls out is a single rectangle of heavy paper, about twice the height of a regular playing card. The side revealed to Dana is a familiar pattern of horse heads, fish tails, dragon wings, and feathers against a warm ochre background. 

“So? Which card is it, Mulder?” 

He flips it over. An ink-black figure looms in front of a flat field of gold-leaf, standing on a pile of pale human skulls. Its wings unfurl behind it, dark feathers tipped in blood that’s the same vivid crimson as its peering eyes and leering, dripping mouth. From its head sprouts a crown of long, branching antlers, curved toward the heavens like a smile. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a supernatural cryptid, cataloged in file X-634109. I feed on AO3 comments. Even the smallest comment can keep me alive and wandering through the California redwoods for months on end.
> 
> If you liked this piece, please consider reblogging [the tumblr post for this fic](https://dirigibleplumbing.tumblr.com/post/624273434767130624/the-two-sights-dirigibleplumbing-hannibal-tv)!
> 
> Also check out [my tumblr](https://dirigibleplumbing.tumblr.com), where I post writing updates, writing snippets, occasional random updates about my life, lots of Will/Hannibal and Steve/Tony reblogs, the occasional Hannibal-related shitpost, an increasing amount of Untamed reblogs, gifs of crows hopping, and photos of gothic cathedrals. 
> 
> PS: I now have a blog called [Art That Reminds me of Hannibal](https://artthatremindsmeofhannibalnbc.tumblr.com/) which is just what it says on the tin. If you like macabre and grotesque art, check it out!


End file.
